Redux
by scintilla-says
Summary: In which being the very best is more of an epic saga than anyone thought possible and the end of the world is nigh.


For one blindingly stupid moment he is sure he is dead, thinks that this must be what death feels like.

But then the sun opens up on his chest, a forest fire contained by sheer bone, and he realizes that no, moron, this is just what being slammed halfway across the marsh by a fucking _Toxicroak_ feels like and everything makes sense again.

_Fuck_, he thinks blankly. He can feel the fresh tear in his chest widen as he clamors to his feet, his eyes automatically searching out sky for a splash of orange, for anything, but it's blueblueblue. He bites back a snarl.

The second punch sends him hurtling again, caught entirely unawares and by the time he re-finds his feet his chest is screaming white. He barely ducks the third throw, sinking to the ground hard enough to fuck up his knees for a while as his hand fumbles to find the single Pokéball he'd been smart enough to grab. His fingertips are ripped up at the seams, made slippery with blood and sweat; he drops it twice before finally caging it in a fist.

It's another duck 'n' dodge before he can finally chuck it, grinning maniacally because the upper hand fills him with all sorts of fiery adrenalin. But then the white flash fades and the grin is killed on impact. "_Magikarp_?"

He's going to _kill_ Alice.

The Toxicroak is watching him with yellow eyes and a shit-eating grin, blue and bulbous and Derek wipes his bloodied mouth with a snarl; he fucking _hates_ Toxicroak.

The Magikarp flaps frantically between them, its great gills billowing as it gasps for water, desperate for anything but this dry land and unforgiving sun. Derek doesn't even bother with Tackle. It's beyond that point and besides, he has a thousand as it is.

The ground beneath his feet swirls violently – he is thrown for a moment, made sick from the dizzying jolt. All he can taste is blood and sweat, blood and sweat; the poison's finally setting in, and all of a sudden he very badly wants to go home.

The fourth and fifth hits send him reeling. He vomits hard on his hands and knees, spitting red and for the faintest of seconds believes he might actually die, in the middle of nowhere at the brutal hands of an overgrown frog, no less. He's going to _die_, sick and beaten, with that nothing but that damn useless fish alongside and he almost laughs, bitter and hypertensive, strung out and aching for a heroic rescue.

It comes not a moment too soon, billowing fire and smoke and it's not quite the rescue he had in mind but fuck it, he'll take what he can get. There's one colossal roar, music to Derek's beaten ears, and it's only seven-point-four seconds before everything is aflame, orange and crackling and deliciously over.

He groans, tries to remember if this is protected land and if that fire's going to cost him or not but then he decides he doesn't care anyway and slings an arm over Charizard's tree trunk of a neck. It takes all his remaining energy to pull himself up and he lets his face droop into the rough hide, breathes in smoke.

"…took you so long?" It is a slur; his mouth is full of tar and vomit and copper and he lets his eyes fall shut as they leave the carnage below.

He thinks that death can't feel much worse than this.

* * *

"What the hell were you thinking?! How many times have we warned you about going off in the marsh on your own? For Arceus' sakes, Derek!"

He blinks sluggishly, peering up at her from the ground in some kind of poison-induced daze. He is spread-eagled on the front lawn, and it occurs to him that he probably should have left a note or something. His girlfriend is _pissed_.

"Alice." He tries to explain but his lips are puffy and numb, made useless. He frowns hazily and tries to lick at them, "Al – poison – "

He is trying to explain the gory hole in his chest, just in case she's interested, but her nostrils flare and she turns away with a rare scowl, declaring him ridiculous and stalking back across the grass before he can get another word out.

He moans, more to himself than anything, a pitiful mewl for medical attention that is lost in the Summer breeze. Alice gives Chansey her marching orders on the way in, pausing only to grimace up at the sky because Flynn is gone still.

She sighs at the door, pressing warm skin into cool wood until her heart isn't racing anymore. Theutter _stupidity _of her boyfriend never ceases to amaze her. She is thinking she might have to hide his Pokéballs from him again (she lost count after That Time With The Geodude) when a low trill catches her attention. It sets her teeth on edge at once because there is no-one, _no-one_,welcome that visits by _car_. No-one that isn't a Panel spokesperson, or a Jenny looking to foil Derek's official record because he has set something on fire _again_.

But the visitor is nobody she expects, not even one of Professor Oak's endless henchmen. His face stops her dead in her tracks, rooted to the spot in every way.

"Allen." It is a faint whisper, somehow slipping around the choked feeling in her throat. It has been three years since she has seen him and he hasn't changed in the slightest, pale and dark-eyed, with his endless spidery frame and _those damn eyebrows_. Allen, all Allen, and her heart is still a corpse in her chest.

"Alice." He regards her carefully; she's taller, she knows, and her hair was never this shade of honey but he would never ask. He ingests information silently like the kind of intense spy Derek is always fan-girling over, locking it all away never to be mentioned. It hits her from nowhere that she's missed that: the thick quiet that surrounds him.

"I hope my arrival is not too much of an inconvenience," he's saying guardedly as she is still just trying to _talk_. She never gets the chance regardless. The grass thrashes wildly around them with the rapid burst of wind and Alice shades her eyes as the Gyarados touches down scarce meters away. Flynn doesn't bother even trying to restrain himself but downright charges the field and slams straight into Allen with a whoop of joy, only saved from a disgraceful tumble by the older man's considerable reflexes.

"I've been looking for you all morning," Alice finds herself saying faintly but the irritation is in a losing battle.

"Shrimp." Allen's lips quirk ever so slightly in the barest display of affection, more than he would ever offer Alice but truthfully she is long past being despaired over it. Flynn steps back grinning like a madman, cheeks flushed red. He has changed in more ways than Allen can take in at once. He had been a gangly mess at fourteen, timid and awkward and swimming in his brother's hand-me-downs, all sharp elbows and clumsy fingers. He has gained at least six inches in the last few years, obviously stealing his share of the family's ridiculous cheekbones and impossible grin, dimpled and dangerously infectious.

"Decorating, are we?" He muses, casting his eyes over the blue streaks twisted through blonde and Flynn snorts derisively.

"Derek's stupid idea."

The explanation slips out without a thought behind it. Flynn's grin is immediately nixed by the lines that appear on Allen's forehead and wrenches his mouth open to apologise but the car opens up again and a woman slips out onto the yard, swiftly clamming him the hell up. She's tall, tall and slim and curvy in all the right places, practically spilling out of her top, pants slung low and tight enough to cause concern about circulation. There's a large, colorful tattoo on her neck, a snap to her hips and she meets Alice's eyes with intent. Her hair is cut short and dyed violet, long spikes out in front. Her fingers gleam with gems. "Cute house."

Flynn's lips curl uncertainly; he doesn't like the look of her at all, doesn't like the way she's looking at their house, definitely doesn't like the way her hand opens up on the small of Allen's back.

"Thank you. I'm sorry, you are…?"

"My apologies." Allen makes no move to alter the woman's hold on him and instead his narrow fingers curl over her bare hip, effectively branding her as his own. "This is Deirdre. My wife."

Flynn stares. He can feel Alice move beside him, shifting with blatant surprise but Allen's words ring through his head like a bell. Wife. _Wife_. Allen is married. Allen had gotten _married_.

He feels like he's been thrown off a roller-coaster, slipped clean off Nalong at ten-thousand-feet in the air and he won't hit the damn ground. His mouth is reamed with cotton and glass, stiff and aching and _oh Arceus Allen is married_.

"Oh," Alice manages but she's equally speechless. "Um."

"I need to get dressed." Flynn leaves at once, disappearing on Nalong without a backwards glance. Lacking the heart to stop him, Alice presses her tongue against her teeth, working the grooves like clockwork. To think she'd actually believed Derek's little Toxicroak stunt was going to be the worst thing to happen today.

"Shall we go inside?" She offers after a starchy moment. Allen doesn't look at her, and so it is Deidre that replies.

"Yes," she says around a sneer, all faux-Glameow, "I can't _wait_ to see inside."

* * *

For the most part, the house hasn't changed since Allen saw it last. It's still too small for its britches: a two-floor jumble of brick and timber that makes it look like it's half-way through being renovated. Or demolished, nobody could ever decide. The lamp by the kitchen door is still a hideous plaid monstrosity, the downstairs ceiling still quivers with every movement from upstairs, the carpet is still depressingly thin and probably teaming with mites. On the other hand, it is cleaner – tidier – evidence of Alice's neat streak no doubt, because he knows the brothers better than anyone and they're incapable of keeping cardboard box clean.

Knew, he has to correct himself. He _knew_ them better than anyone.

Its only saving grace is the backyard, miles and miles of green that technically belong to no-one, eventually bleeding back into the nearby marsh. It used to be his favourite place in the world.

"Can I get you anything?" Alice is poised for a snack run, her fingers pressed tight to her hips as if she simply doesn't know what else to do with them.

"What a charming house," Deirdre is saying from the couches, eyeing off the crocheted pillows with a cut-throat smile, openly entertained. Allen supposes that's better than her being pissed off. Marginally.

Alice searches out Allen's face, as if she is trying to gouge just how sarcastic his wife is being but he gives her nothing. Just asks for a coffee, black as Deidre sprawls on the couch, lips curved humourlessly. Her dark eyes are slits. "You lived here?"

"They're good people," he replies as simply as possible because what would she know? She makes a snorting sound but doesn't comment further, too distracted by at everything in sight.

"You know," Derek's saying as he enters through the side door with fresh bruises and annoyed grunts, "Most girlfriends would at least give me a bandage, take me to a hospital or something, but no, I get Poison Stung and _you_ –"

He stops cold at the sight of Allen, his bloodied lips falling lax. He doesn't talk – he _can't_. Allen becomes instantly aware that they're both holding their breath. Deirdre twists in her seat, raking her eyes down Derek's chest, bare and slicked with sweat. She makes a purring sound in the back of throat and says, "Well, I can see why anyone would stay in this heap after all."

Allen's head snaps to her sharply, a cutting remark on the tip of his tongue but before he can get anything out Derek has stammered helplessly and fled into the kitchen altogether.

Alice glances at his chest, the new addition to his collection of scars and manages a tired smile, "That looks a bit better. Chansey's really making strides."

"Allen is here!"

"Yes, I had noticed that, thank you." His girlfriend sighs, busying herself with the biscuit tray. She can't quite remember what Allen eats.

"Why is he here?" His eyes are popped wide, breath stuttering in the recess of his mouth.

She wants to throw her hands up with the frustration of it all and this point, she is pretty fucking sure the dark feeling blooming in her gut isn't just paranoia.

"And who the _fuck_ is the T and A?"

Alice can't and doesn't hold back the incredulous snort. "His wife, apparently."

Derek digests this new information at Snorlax's pace, tripping over the word until eventually he coughs it out: "_Wife_?"

"Apparently," she sighs and then shrugs again, unable to add to it because she honestly does not know what to make of that either. As if Allen returning wasn't a big enough mind-screw within itself.

_Focus_, Derek thinks. He drags his hand back over his mouth, raking off dried blood with a grimace. "She uh. She looks a bit familiar, actually."

"Her name is Deidre. Deirdre Ravel. She took over the Fighting Dojo last Spring. It's all a bit convenient, really."

"That's fucking – I didn't hear anything about them getting hitched. It would've made the news, everyone would've fucking _salivated _over that shit. The Fighting Dojo and the Gym finally getting their mix on, who fucking saw that coming."

Alice smartly declines pointing out that Derek actively avoids anything to do with Allen so even if it had been in the news (likely) he would have been blissfully ignorant (even more likely). She doesn't feel like dealing with one more explosion today. "He's your best friend," she breathes it out slowly, wearily.

Derek makes a noise caught between disbelief and horror. Best friend. He doesn't know what to say to that, doesn't even know where to start. He has no fucking idea what Allen is to him anymore but he's pretty damn sure it's not _best_ anything.

His fists close and Alice's mouth is on his in an instant, warm and soothing and everything he needs right now. "Give him a chance," she whispers into his teeth, hands fencing his wrists. "For me, please. They're obviously here for a reason."

* * *

Allen's coffee goes cold on the slab of glass and timber between them, angled neatly alongside the biscuit tray. Only Derek eats, his own nervous tic, loud crunches of wheat eviscerating the heavy silence.

No-one even bothers with any attempt at small talk and after ten minutes of the vapid air Alice has had more than enough. "So." She picks at her lace sleeves and crosses her ankles primly. "What brings you here?"

For a moment Allen's face betrays nothing, but then he slips up for the slightest of microseconds, pale face undoubtedly sharpening, and Alice sees a dash of something that makes her blood run cold. He does not meet their eyes and Deirdre's painted face closes in on itself.

"I thought you should be aware that there are changes taking place," Allen says slowly, as if he has to mull it over as he goes. "The legal age minimum is being extended to twenty-one. That is not – there is no easy way to say this. Johto is considering the outlawing of Battling altogether."

It's a slap in Derek's face. His mouth falls open like a distorted Magikarp, all white teeth and slack lips. "Wait, what?"

His girlfriend is less stunned. Quite honestly, she's been expecting this moment for some time now. It is no less painful, but the months of waiting have certainly taken the indignation out of it. She can understand her boyfriend's despair though: Johto is a domino, and it is likely all downhill from here. Six degrees, the butterfly effect, the whole fucked-up analogy's nine yards. If Johto falls then the rest of the world will surely follow suit.

"They can't do that." Derek is rank with denial, nostrils flared and crimson eyebrows in a sharp V. "Since fucking _when_ can they do that?!"

"The Leagues Council made unanimous decision to change the age requirement last month and have put forth the official Bill," Allen monotones, looking entirely unbothered despite Battles being his bread and butter. "That will likely pass uncontested, after that young boy was killed last week. It is safe to say that all of the Leagues are finding themselves in a precarious position. Indigo has already received fair warning that the Academy will be closed within the coming year."

Alice bites her lip, her shoulders slumping weakly in defeat. Acceptance is the first step, after all. "Who knows? So far. Who knows about it?"

"No-one outside of this room, and the Leagues Council."

"Bullshit!" Derek snorts angrily as he snaps forward, back arched horrendously to slam his hand onto the coffee table. "This can't be happening. They can't just fucking _do_ that! What the _fucking hell _are they thinking?!"

"Black Tuesday," Alice utters soft as the silk of her dress and her boyfriend's head snaps around. She stares straight ahead at nothing, her throat oddly dry. "That's why."

"It's fucking _tripe,_" Deirdre sneers suddenly. "They've ben planning this for ages. Black Tuesday is nothing but a convenient excuse and a fucking poor one at that. They just don't want to deal with the Rebels anymore. They're cowards."

Alice's hand slips into Derek's as she, typically, takes the reasonable stance. She can feel him prickle beside him, the tension in the air shifting until it takes on a darker, uglier edge. "Well, I suppose Johto believes they're doing it for the best. It's not actually that –"

"Oh, please!" Deirdre snorts derisively and crosses her legs with a haughty toss of her violet hair. "The destruction of an entire _empire_ all because of a few murders? It's fucking stupid."

There is complete silence for the barest of moments before Derek's teeth gnash audibly, sickened and beyond furious. "A few murders? It was fucking _genocide_!"

"All the same." Deirdre's lips curl_._

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Derek snarls, his hands bunching into fists as fire races his veins. He wants to dive across the table and strangle her senseless. "I lost fucking_ family_ in that! _Thousands of people died!_"

"Be quiet, both of you." It's Allen that interrupts, looking at them both like they're nothing but children, down his nose and simpering. "This is not the time for petty brawls."

Derek's teeth grind against each other hard enough to hurt; he's _seething _as he throws himself back against the seat, putting as much space between the two couples as possible. He doesn't know who he wants to hurt more.

Alice's fingers find the redhead's again, looping through to hold tight. He doesn't grip back but she knows it's probably more to do with the fact that he might actually break something if he did. "What's going to happen then? If… if this actually comes to pass. What's going to happen?"

"Can anyone say chaos?" Deirdre drawls and she tilts her head back to expose her neck, tattoo stretched brazenly. It is a dragon, angry and red and made of fire. The Fighting Dojo's emblem is carved into its crest, claws clutching its emerald banner.

Alice suffers a sigh as Derek twitches again, lips clamped between teeth to prevent any anger from spilling over. "You don't know that. It might be welcomed, considering recent events."

"Coordinators. Ever the optimists." It's said with nothing but contempt and this time Alice is the one to wrangle in a wave of resentment.

"Deirdre is right, unfortunately," Allen cuts in, all clipped tone and far-off look. "It is likely to spark another rebellion all over again. But that is something that we will worry about when it happens. Though I daresay it is hardly the smartest move if they are looking to reign it in. At least if Training is legal they have a certain amount of control over it, however contested."

Alice and Derek exchange looks as they process his words and Alice's heart-shaped face crumples a little. "But you can't even buy Pokéballs without a license these days. If you're not on the Trainer or Coordinator register you can go to jail just for _owning_ a Pokémon in most regions. They're already so strict, and this is when it's still _legal_. Can you imagine how pedantic they would be if it becomes illegal, especially in Johto of all places?"

Deirdre snorts again, incredulously. She gives Alice a pitying smile. "Oh, you _are_ adorable. You think there isn't an entire black market entirely for that purpose? And it's going to absolutely blossom if all this outlawing goes ahead. Allen's right – it isn't the best course of action right now. And we all know once Johto has started so will everywhere else. They'll stop everything; they'll cull every Pokémon that's not a necessity and Training will become a shitfight. Even more than it already is. The Rebels will have a fucking _field _day when they find out."

"…What are you guys talking about?" Flynn asks from the stairs, rubbing his arm, brow beetled. Derek's anger drains in an instant. It is a brother thing, he suspects. Achilles' heel if he ever saw one.

"Nothing," he says quickly, because this is Flynn's Big Day, and he's not about to wreck that anymore than he already has. Alice shoots him a look that clearly implies she thinks the teenager has a right to know but Derek steadfastly ignores it. He is alarmingly good at that. "You ready?"

Flynn's nose scrunches a bit, but there is an answering nod. He has changed into his school uniform, stiff white shirt (with the most ridiculously oversized collar Derek has ever seen outside dorky cartoons and the horrors of cosplay) and respectable navy slacks. His bag is slung over his shoulder, emblazoned with the school's emblem in striking gold and his fingers dance over it absently. "Yeah. Are…?" he trails off, feeling inexplicably unsure as his eyes dart to Allen and Deirdre.

"Flynn is graduating today," Alice fills them in, not at all astounded at the lack of surprise on Allen's face. And then it spills out so fast that she has no chance of stopping it, "Would you like to come?"

"What?" Derek makes it plain that he would sooner scoop his eyes out with coal.

Alice doesn't look at him – she keeps her eyes locked on Allen's, but his expression doesn't falter in the least. Maybe he had been expecting her to ask. Maybe he didn't care either way.

"Yes. Thank you."

As simple as that.

She bites back a smile, because Allen's stubbornness could send Derek's packing. He would never do anything that he didn't, on some level, genuinely _want _to do, and she has no idea what that is a sign _of_ but she can cross that bridge later.

"I'm going to get dressed!" Derek announces loudly, jumping off the couch in an instant. He stomps upstairs in great big strides just to let his girlfriend know exactly how pissed off he is and Alice gives the newlyweds a small, forsaken smile as she rises to follow him.

She wants to give Flynn some reassuring touch, but he's nothing but an empty space. She figures he dashed off the moment Allen answered. She rolls her eyes, _teenagers_, but lets him have his panic attack in peace.

* * *

"Kindly explain why we're tagging along to this little freak show." It's not a request. Her eyes are distasteful strips.

Allen is watching the house soundlessly. His back is pressed to the car, hands tucked neatly around his waist. He's not really sure himself. It's not a necessity – they don't need to stick around. There's no reason to go, no reason for any of it. He should just do what he came to do and leave. That had been the plan. And now somehow it wasn't and he is less sure of _why_ than everyone else combined.

So he says nothing and Deirdre gives a vicious sort but says nothing either. She knows when to give up and Allen is as unresponsive as Onix-hide when he wants to be.

Less than two minutes later the door bangs and Derek's out, girlfriend in tow. He sees the others and stops dead, pale lips thinning for the briefest of moments as if he'd forgotten they would be waiting. "Where's Flynn?"

"How should we know? He's _your_ miracle," Deirdre snarks and Derek takes a deep breath through his nose, reminding himself that homicide is a crime punishable by law.

"I'm here." Flynn arrives as quietly as always, with a soft flutter of clothes and a bite on his lip. His shoes are soaking wet. No-one comments on it and Nalong's Pokéball is clasped tight in his fingers, knuckles turned white.

"Great." Alice inhales the awkward air, as tense and palpable as it had been inside. She locks the front door behind them, dropping her keys in her pearl clutch. The Rubicon. Her smile is forced and try as she might, she just can't seem to make it looser. "Shall we meet you there?"

Deirdre's return smile is all mocking, already reaching for the car. "We shall."

* * *

"We," Derek declares loudly once he's angled his bombshell of a car between two glistening shuttles, "Are never driving anywhere again. Next time? Next time we're _flying_."

"Well, you know, if you'd bothered to clear a flight plan we wouldn't have had to drive."

"Fascist!"

Alice rolls her eyes, but does not bother to correct him. Some things are just not worth the effort. Instead, she climbs out of the car with Flynn and frowns at the mass of people huddled outside the gate. "What's going on there?"

"Who knows," Flynn mutters. He holds his bag to his chest, his fingertips tracing over the Pokéball symbol embossed on the soft leather. "I'll see you after the ceremony."

"Hang on a sec!" Derek digs around in his pocket and produces Charizard's Pokéball with a triumphant grin. "Bastards won't let me go through the gates with it."

Alice chastises them both immediately but Flynn takes the Pokéball anyway. He gives them one last look before leaving for the students' entrance as Derek locks the car. They make their way to the crowd, curiosity piqued, right up until Derek stands on his tiptoes and sees exactly who is at the centre of the fanfare.

"Let's jet." He takes Alice's elbow with tight fingers and cuts an arc away from the flurry, body wound taut. If there's one thing he loathes more than the Allen-Deirdre powerhouse right now it's a worshipper. He'd rather go at it with a pissed-off Toxicroak a hundred times over.

They're scanned for Pokéballs at the gate after exchanging their tickets. They have their Trainer and Coordinator IDs processed, checked, scanned and re-checked, just to be safe and something inside Derek longs for the simpler days, head back in battle and skin slick with heat. He almost wants to cry with delight once they are finally allowed in.

He has barely made it through the gates when he is attacked by an eighteen-year-old boy with far too much golden hair, curling around his face like a halo. His entire mood lights up at once. "Locky!"

Lockyer imps a grin, mischief twisting and turning all over his pixie face, dressed in the school uniform. This is probably the first time Derek's ever seen his hair combed. "Hey, Torch. Professor says I get to punch you."

Derek opens his mouth to give a rather affronted quip when their little group expands, becoming a quartet again and Lockyer's demeanor shifts abruptly. He has never met Allen before and Flynn has only referenced him in vague snippets so meeting the Gym Leader _in person _is nothing short of every wannabe Trainer's dream, but it is Deirdre that has him all tied up. He is but a teenage boy after all, driven by crazy hormones and Deirdre is downright _infamous _for a lot more than her battle skills. She has made an art form out of self-promotion, and he knows more than a few boys that are in possession of some of her more questionable merchandise, himself included. His face flushes red, his skin jittery and he suddenly has no idea what to do with his hands. All he can do is offer a jerky, toothy grin that probably makes him look like a right fool.

"Uh." He is already sweating and his fingers flounder at his sides. He might as well be drowning. "Hey."

Deirdre snorts quietly, but cocks her hip and arranges her face into something with warmth. She has faced enough star-struck (love-struck – it's all the same thing) teenage boys to know what to do with them. "Hey, cutie."

Derek's entire expression folds in on itself with disgust, but Lockyer bites grinning lips, his flush intensifying.

"Are you in the battle today?" the woman asks with what sounds like genuine curiosity to the untrained ear but Allen knows it's more akin to foreplay. He restrains himself from rolling his eyes at her while Lockyer shakes his head, a crestfallen look flashing across his face.

"The whole grade's been fighting it out all year to get the top spots. It's Mareej and Flynn of course." There is a snort that may or may not be bitter. "Who didn't see that coming?"

Deirdre lifts an eyebrow, shrugging nonchalantly and tipping her head up to survey her surroundings. "I don't know. He's not as impressive as everyone makes him out to be."

Lockyer is caught for a moment, visibly torn between loyalty to his best friend and _Deirdre Ravel _so Derek takes the opportunity by the horns to cut the conversation short, snapping tartly, "Besides, Locky got kept down a little too much to be participating in any battles." He offers a sadistic grin.

"It was only once! I –"

The fevered explanation is interrupted by the Academy's illustrious principal in the flesh, swathed in golden roes, long-necked and beady-eyed. Derek thinks that if it wasn't for his chunky frame he would look something like Ho-Oh himself. Lockyer's mouth snaps shut.

"Allen Green, of course. It's an honor to have you here today." He takes his hand and pumps it energetically before his eyes find Deirdre. "And Mrs. Green, looking as lovely as always. I was so sorry to have to turn down your generous invitation. End of year, as you know. Busy, busy! It brings me great pleasure to congratulate your atotropaic union in person."

"You are too kind, really," Deirdre all but purrs as she arranges herself over her new husband's shoulders and pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the column of his throat.

Tittering, Horace gives Lockyer a hard look and asks, "Shouldn't you be getting to your seat, Oak?"

The blond nods morosely, looking at Allen and Deirdre with a pathetically heartbroken look, and turns to go. He pauses for only a moment to push something small and delightfully familiar into Derek's hand. The redhead knows without a doubt that it's Charizard, and his fingers close around the warm sphere with a burst of affection. He clears his throat deliberately and for once Allen doesn't disappoint. "These are my friends, Alice Hargrove and Derek Fray."

Friends. It's remarkable how easy that word comes to him, forming on his tongue without hesitation and he is not really sure what to think of that just yet.

"Ah, Derek!" Horace approves, lips raging under that enormous mustache. "But of course. You must be so proud of your brother! By the way, I watched your performance at the Plateau last year. _Very _interesting. I can see where Flynn gets his skills. Oh! I happen to have a spare box right up front. I keep it reserved just in case we have… special company." His eyes glitter and Alice frowns uneasily in turn.

"No, thank you," Allen's response is quick and he turns to Derek, faces him head-on for the first time since the living room fiasco. "We should find our seats."

And Derek knows, beyond rhyme or reason, that what Allen is saying is _get me out of here, please. _

It is innate; it's in his bones, left there by years upon years of unquestioning friendship. He nods without meaning to, without thinking it through because this is _deep friendship shit_ and he can't fight that. He is so thrown by its sudden reappearance that, in truth, he wouldn't even know how.

His chest is aching, right under the scar, and he slams that back down too.

* * *

As it pans out their seats are about three-quarters of the way up the stands of the Academy's adjoining stadium, which Derek is deliriously joyful about. A height fetish that Alice has never been able to understand because she _loathes _heights. Just looking at the field of molten green concrete below them is enough to make her dizzy.

"Explain why we didn't take the box seats." Deirdre's miffed.

Allen only returns her a dull look and sits between the two girls, scoping out the battle field. It is the largest of the three Academy stadiums, chalked up with lines and courts. The first two rows of seats are allocated to the graduating class, a sea of white and navy blue ready to cheer on their respective classmates.

"I don't get why they always hold the battle_ before_ the graduation ceremony. Makes no fucking – oh! Flynn, I see Flynn! Flynn!" Derek all but explodes with excitement, shooting to the edge of his seat as his little brother advances onto the field, coming to stand directly opposite his approaching opponent.

To the uninitiated, the naïve (_the lucky_, Allen thinks bitterly) battle costumes are a show, equivalent to a fancy dress party without the party. But he is not lucky, and he was never naïve. He knows exactly they represent: a uniform. A sense of belonging. Community. An art form, each one as individual to its wearer as fingerprints.

Above all, a weapon.

Flynn's costume is comprised of blues, tidy and streamlined, hugging the boy's skeletal frame like it has been painted on: Allen instantly recognises the material as Gyarados skin. His throwing arm has been sheathed from elbow to knuckle in some dark metal, embellished with blunted spikes – enough to cause damage if needed and his legs have received the same treatment, protected up to the knee in identically-fashioned boots. The rest, however, is all aesthetics with the top reigning supreme, intricately cut at the sides to expose sharp, pale hipbones and the tiniest sliver of hard muscle. The Pokéball symbol is inscribed on his belt, cut directly into the hard buckle. _A good pick_, Allen concedes after a moment's careful consideration because it has proven time and time again that the simple matter of clothing can make or break a battle (he's _never _seen anyone with a cape after the Jewel City incident).

Flynn's competition is a stout, hard-lined boy by the name of Mareej Ayar. He has an angry rash of pimples to his left cheek, a deep scar eviscerating his opposite eyebrow (a result of a failed attempt to subdue a wild Bulbosaur in his ill-fated junior year) and a crew-cut, dark and rippling. His collar is high and stiff, ultimately protective. His uniform differs greatly from Flynn's in the sense that it is all armour and shoulder pads. It is made up of a dark one-piece number that covers all but his face and his boots are thick and thigh-high. Allen can't discern what it's made of, but he bets his life that it's tough as nails. His belt is thick, heavy, slung over his chest and there is more than your standard ware; he is packing quite a punch and while firearms are forbidden in battles the blades aren't.

"Why," Derek demands hotly, "has he got _throwing stars?_ What the fuck does he think this is, a ninja death match? Maybe I should've given Flynn stars," he adds with a sudden clout of hesitancy, eyeing the single dagger holstered at his brother's thigh.

Alice exhales measuredly, her hand pooling warmth onto his knee, which seems to settle him. She assesses Mareej silently, sifting through her endless supply of memories for any scrap of him whatsoever. He is not ringing any sort of bell, which is concerning within itself. "Flynn will be fine, with or without stars. Have a little faith."

Derek mutters something nondescript and possibly insulting under his breath, but flattens his back against the hard plastic regardless.

The teenager in question shuffles uncomfortably, weight fluctuating with his feet, as if he can feel all the pressure through the air. He doesn't have to look up to know his brother is watching him keenly. Mareej is sneering at him like this is actually a world record attempt at a staring contest instead of a Battle.

Music is blasting in the background, introductory bangs and hums to get the crowd pumped; a fancier drum roll. Flynn pays no heed, focuses on nothing but the words coming out of his adversary's mouth. Mareej has no Pokéball symbol on his person at all – he is not legally allowed to brandish one, not yet. Flynn is the only student in history to wear one. He thinks, vaguely, that maybe it's a sore point to the other boy.

"I knew it'd be you." Mareej's voice is severely clipped by his accent. Flynn has to strain to hear it properly over the noise. He has hardly interacted with the shorter boy in all of the six years they've been studying together, but has come to know that despite his unthreatening appearance he is quite a formidable force. He had come in at second and was probably the closest thing Flynn had to competition. His eyes darken into narrow strips, completely in check.

"I've been watching you from the start, Fray. Everybody said you had so much _promise_. And then you actually _registered_. The youngest person in the world! The only person other than Allen Green to be exempted from the age minimum and you still broke his record by two full years." His thick lips give a bitter twist. "Everyone thought you cheated. They still do. 'Cause there was no fucking way a fifteen-year-old kid could've passed those tests."

Flynn says nothing. In truth, the words have little effect on him anymore. Accusations follow him around like a bad smell and he learned how to ignore them a very long time ago.

For the record, though, he's never cheated on a damn thing in his life.

"But it doesn't matter anymore because today I'm going to prove it to everyone. I've spent the past _six years_ preparing to bring you down. Watching you. Studying your every move. I'm going to bring the great Flynn Fray to his knees in front of everyone and at long last, the world will know what an impostor you are."

The music climbs to an end at the last word (Flynn can't help but wonder if that was a deliberately timed effort – it wouldn't exactly surprise him) and then he is left standing less than six feet away from his classmate, with his so-damn-sure smile and wildly glinting eyes.

Flynn thinks of the registration exams and every battle he has had to face since. This is his _school_. This is a ceremonial battle, nothing more, and he has no idea why it is affecting him so. His thin hands slip from his belt into the warmth of his pockets, twisting anxiously within.

_Get a grip_, he thinks and is wholly unsurprised that it is relayed in his brother's voice.

The stadium falls silent at Horace's sudden, booming voice. He is holding a microphone to his mouth, mustache rustling noisily around it. "Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen and welcome to our very special annual celebratory Graduation Battle!

"We have a fantastic match for you today, the best ever, I believe! Our straight-A, Honour Roll student Mareej Ayar versus the Academy's very own legend, the child prodigy himself, Flynn Fray!"

"Legend?!" Derek yells to Alice over the crowd's appeased roar. He is grinning wildly, chest boiled hot with pride. He claps along with everyone else until his hands sting. "No pressure, huh?!"

Flynn swallows, thick and lumpy with his blood pounding in his ears. He tries not to focus on Horace's words because phrases like legendand _prodigy _still make him feel a little light-headed. He tries not to think about the audience and who that word encapsulates.

He takes a deep breath, inhaling until he feels his sides begin to burn before letting it all out. His hands find his belt, the smooth curves of the attached Pokéballs, forever cool to the touch. He feels marginally better at once. Six little miracles, hanging in a row. One step, two step, three step, _throw_.

Horace thanks sponsors, teachers. Spectators for coming, and reminds them of the dutiful Jennies on guard, the Joys waiting in the wings should anything go wrong (as it often does).There's a referee, donned in navy blue with flowing silver hair, effeminate but undeniably male, the sole other occupant on the field. There are Pokéballs strapped to his chest as well, whistles and a stun gun. Just in case, and he makes the boys shake hands with a grim smile.

"That's a lot of hair for a dude," Derek comments loudly, inherently amused by this before he zooms in on his kid brother, squinting to see his face because he can't see shit from this height. And then it's over – he doesn't have time to gage Flynn's exact emotions because a gong has sounded and the match has begun.

"I am going to _enjoy_ this." Mareej's smile grows until his teeth are gleaming. He's already moving, has already thrown a Pokéball and the brilliant flash brings Flynn abruptly back to earth.

Jolteon.

Electricity dances through the air between them as Mareej's head cocks to the left. "Most of your Pokémon are Water-Type, and you favour greatly. Your Gyarados, Nalong, is your spearhead, you'll use her whenever you can, and _let_ me assure you I've got her moves memorised. Every Pokémon in your arsenal is either a Water-Type or secondary Water-Type, and I've taken the time to research them… _thoroughly_. I know all your weaknesses, Fray."

"How fortunate," Flynn mumbles to himself, his long fingers hooked around his first Pokéball and legs positioned to scram; it comes in one heated yell, wrapped with a malicious grin.

"Thunder Fang!"

Flynn bolts, Pokéball arcing through the air at neck-breaking speed and he hits Nalong just in time, rocketing into the air as charged teeth slam into the ground where he had stood only seconds before.

"That was a little too close, don't you think?" he tells Nalong with a ragged breath, his heart beating double-time. Circling thirty feet above, he starts to wonder exactly how much weight Mareej's I-Shall-Defeat-You speech holds. He hadn't trained for this battle _at all_. He's thrown completely off-kilter when Jolteon is returned already. "Zapdos!"

It feels as if everything in Flynn's life has crashed spectacularly to a stop right in the centre of his chest. The light is blinding; it streams golden through the sky, living bolts of lightning shaking the air as the bird's wings spread. The entire stadium is lit up, and Flynn can't bring himself to look away.

"Oh Arceus," he whispers, but it's lost in the mad shamble of thunder that Zapdos' cry brings.

Down in the stands, Deirdre has been shocked into silence, mouth open and hands tight. "That's an... unexpected twist," she manages faintly. Zapdos hangs in the air above them, a variable thunderstorm with wings. Horace is silent amongst the crowd, who don't seem to know what to do. There is a flurry of cries and a mad rush of camera flashes but they fade into obscurity as Zapdos gives a violent twist through the air.

"But Zapdos is dead." Alice is staring up at the bird with a muted expression, her eyes as round as the moon as she repeats her own words faintly, disbelievingly. Beside her, Derek says nothing but the statement rings true.

_Zapdos is dead._

"Steel Wing!"

"_Fuck_!" The attack hits them like a tornado, razored and hard, sending Flynn flying. Nalong roars, tremors, thrashing furiously and Flynn hits the ground first, quickly returning her before she can tear the whole field apart. He is bleeding, cut through his left arm and his back is torn. He rolls over onto his side, testing his limbs to make sure nothing's been rendered useless before pushing forward onto his knees. Inhales,, exhales, and Zapdos is still circling above him like a twisted vulture, thunder and lightning (very very frightening, he thinks aimlessly because he can't fucking _concentrate_).

Arceus, what does he know about Zapdos? _Nothing_, he answers bitterly because nobody _talks _about it anymore. He can't separate gossip from fact and this terrifies him because he doesn't know what to _do_.

He sure as hell doesn't know how the fuck _Mareej_ _of_ _all people _has it.

"Flying. Electric," He whispers to himself and oh Arceus, Arceus could he _please_ get his head back in the game? He hunches low, breathes deep and immediately thinks of Allen. He is the expert on Electric-Types and with his own inclination towards water they'd trained together all the time back in the day, back before everything got complicated and knives were thrown. What did he learn from all that… and how can he even apply that to a fucking _Legendary Pokemon that is supposed to be dead_?

"Giving up?" Mareej's smile could cut glass. Flynn thinks he maybe wants to throw up.

"What do you reckon he's gonna do?" Deirdre asks, all whispers and slitted eyes.

Allen has his arms folded across his broad chest, hands fisted tightly. "The bigger question is how on _earth _Ayar managed to acquire it, let alone control it. Zapdos has not been sighted for decades."

Derek shakes his head slowly, distractedly. His lip is in his teeth, all narrow-eyed because that weird feeling hasn't gone away, has multiplied and bred. It is warping every part of him now, latticed across his skin. "I've got a really fucked-up feeling about this." He is watching his brother intently, mapping out possible moves and receiving nothing of hope.

On the field, Flynn runs his tongue over his teeth, tasting blood from his lip, calculates and hypothesises and finally – finally – retaliates. "Kabutops!"

"What a surprise," Mareej drawls. "Water."

Flynn mumbles: "Something like that," and he really, _really _wishes he still had Nalong open. But he isn't going to risk her against Zapdos, not yet. Not unless he absolutely has to, because Arceus knows what Zapdos is capable of. Within seconds, Kabutops is standing between them with his great sickles raised expectantly and Flynn knows what's coming, hunches his shoulders and yanks down his eyebrows and mumbles something akin to an apology as guilt sends his stomach curling.

He only hopes Kabutops can hear it.

"Zapdos! Thunderbolt!"

It lights up the stadium, a furious flash of light that can be seen a mile away and the audience flinches as a whole. Horace says something into his microphone, but it is ultimately drowned by the crash of lightening. Deirdre spits profanities as her hand move to shield her eyes.

Flynn is on his knees by the time it's over, head twisted and eyes shut because he can't bear to see the damage. He isn't built for this part of battles. He can _smell _it in the air, visceral and cutting.

"What the fuck?!" Derek is livid. "He has a Quick Claw, I fucking know he does! Why the _fuck _didn't he take in the Quick Claw?!"

Allen doesn't give him the obvious answer; he's miles away and knows exactly where this battle is going.

Flynn is scrambling, eyes burning just vaguely because Kabutops never stood a chance and there are a thousand apologies in his head but there just isn't the time. He can't afford to give Mareej a chance. The order is out of his mouth the moment the flash of light has faded: everything else is background noise now. "_Slash_!"

Because Kabutops wasn't equipped with Quick Claw – he has King's Rock and Flynn prays for that thirty percent, prays it works on _this_.

Zapdos flinches. One fucking flinch, and Flynn has a foot in. "Kabutops! Rock Slide!"

The move is intercepted by a spear of light, telltale white. Flynn is thrown backwards from the shock alone.

"What?!" Mareej screams, staring at the Onix between them, taking up a good half of the stadium, so unexpected that half the crowd is on their feet. Derek's blood runs cold. He moves to yell at Flynn, to tell him to get out of there, _away_ because it has all gone so wrong,but he doesn't get the chance.

No-one does.

* * *

**Drama, y'all. **

**Please be aware that while this story does feature an abysmal amount of original characters, the other guys will show up too. **

**Timeline wise, we're running after HeartGold/SoulSilver. This will contain elements from both the games and the anime.**

**Any mistakes are purely my own but don't hesitate to slap them out of me.**

**(Cross-posted on AO3.)**


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